


Corazón Desvelado

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Batman (Comics), DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Red Robin (Comics)
Genre: Crossdressing, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Identity Porn, Jason speaks Spanish but is not actually Hispanic or Latino, M/M, Other, Slow Burn, Undercover as a Couple, genderfluid tim
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2018-08-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 19:33:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 17,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12327414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: Batman gestures in the air, pulling up a holoscreen with mugshots, satellite images, a chemical compound diagram. “I have a delicate undercover mission I need you two to be on. We have reason to believe that the Rosarito Cartel has been working in connection with the Scarecrow and the Grant Hill Gang local to San Diego. We need you two to pose as new transplants and infiltrate their ranks. Jason will be Jacob Martinez, a construction worker with ambiguously Hispanic heritage. Tim, you will be Kimberly Jackson, Jacob’s fiancée, currently unemployed.”“WHAT?!” they squawk in unison.“I have confidence in you," Batman says.“Great,” Tim says, voice cracking.





	1. Dramatis Personae

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to the bae [AmariT](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AmariT/pseuds/AmariT) for her stellar beta powers.

“A change in any considerable part of a body destroys its identity; but 'tis remarkable, that where the change is produc'd _gradually_ and _insensibly_ we are less apt to ascribe to it the same effect. [...] A ship, of which a considerable part has been chang'd by frequent reparations, is still considered as the same.”

— A Treatise of Human Nature, Book I, Part IV, Section VI: Of Personal Identity, David Hume

  


The Cave will always have a slightly damp smell, of limestone and tepid water, despite Alfred’s best attempts at airing it out. Jason had nearly forgotten the way the air clings to the back of his throat, the echo of dripping water deep in the chambers Bruce hasn’t developed into yet. Being here again, in the dim cavern lit only by periodic fluorescents, is… odd. The caves feel alive, the bats clinging to the stalactites fluttering like the walls themselves are teeming with energy. Jason doesn’t know if he likes it. This part of his life is dead to him, and this is anything but. There’s a reason he tries not to come back here anymore, at anyone’s insistence.

Figures he’d be chump enough to still fall for it when B told him he was the only man for this mission, that he was _needed_. The hatred he cultivates for the Batman was always rooted in childish yearning, fertilized by adolescent adoration. Years between himself and that cocksure brat he was before, years and unforgivable differences, and he _still_ has a fucking crush on the man, somewhere under all the brambles and thorns.

He’s _not_  the only man for this job, anyway; the pretender is here, too, looking just as apprehensive as Jason feels. He wonders if it’s still inexperience that keeps him from shuttering his emotions — he’s only been part of the game for a few years now, anyway, still a baby at seventeen (yet older than Jay was when he — don’t think about that, do _not_ ) — or if it’s just trust and comfort in his safety here. As if he’s not standing two feet from someone who’s tried to kill him half a dozen times. Regardless that Jason’s animosity is no longer focused squarely on him, but on a whole slew of Batman-related things.

“Enough dramatic looming,” Jason gripes, scratching absently at his belly, meeting B’s eyes with an unspoken challenge to his authority. “I got places to be, people to meet and then shoot.” He gets a little thrill low in his gut at the way B’s mouth tightens just a fraction. A microreaction anyone else would have missed, but speaks volumes all the same.

Batman gestures in the air, pulling up a holoscreen with mugshots, satellite images, a chemical compound diagram. “I have a delicate undercover mission I need you two to be on,” he says in a confident growl, as if Jason didn’t just win their game of dominance. “The League doesn’t have any members it can spare for this as it’s primarily recon and requires time commitment.”

Apparently he hasn’t won yet. It’s less fun when B rebuts the posturing like that. ”You really make a guy feel like a valued member of the team, asshole. Who says I’m gonna help?”

Batman’s eyes are hidden beneath the white lenses of his cowl, but Jason can read the unamused quirk in the otherwise neutral line of his mouth. “As loathe as we both are at the idea of your assistance, I need your expertise on the inner workings of drug cartels.”

Jason snorts. “I thought you said this was a recon mission.”

Tim raises a hand slightly, like he’s in a goddamn elementary school. Inexperience, then. It’s a little cute how he still defers so heavily to Bruce when anyone can see the kid is just as smart, maybe smarter. “Why the two of us?” Jason can hear the underlying question: why are you throwing me to the shark that’s tried to eat me every chance he gets?

Batman levels a look at Jason. “Insurance.”

Jason takes a step forward before he realizes what he’s doing, rage rising hot and viridian in his veins. “Fuck off! I know how to do a recon mission!”

Batman doesn’t react to his posturing. Jason’s fist itches to connect with his goddamn mouth. “Holding a gun to someone’s head and threatening them for information,” he says with utmost calm, “is not the type of recon we need in this situation.”

“You are such a fucking—”

“Can we please get to the briefing?” Tim’s voice cuts past the green crackle — kid’s got balls after all. Huh.

Another gesture has the holoscreen shifting, the chemical diagram taking center focus. “We have reason to believe that the Rosarito Cartel has been working in connection with the Scarecrow and the Grant Hill Gang local to San Diego, trafficking an experimental nandrolone-LSD compound. We’ve managed to disrupt a few shipments and confirmed they are handling the drug, but we haven’t been able to get any information on where they’re sourcing it or what the Scarecrow is using it for. We need you two to pose as new transplants to the San Diego valley, infiltrate GHG’s ranks socially, and pass on any information about the shipments that you might come across.”

Tim doesn’t hesitate before jumping in as soon as he notes a pause in Batman’s explanation. “I assume you’re hoping to take the Scarecrow down along with the cartel, so we can’t tip anyone off that we’re from Gotham or they’ll know we’re moles. Do you have covers for us already, or…?”

Batman nods once. “Jason will be Jacob Martinez, a construction worker with ambiguously Hispanic heritage.”

“You realize I’m white.” Jason crosses his arms.

“You are also fluent in Spanish,” Batman continues as if nothing is wrong with this, “and this cartel is Mexican and will need that connection in order to trust you.”

“Okay, but I want you to know that this is kinda fucked up.” Jason understands the logic but that doesn’t mean it’s _right_. “The term brownface ringing a bell?”

He’s ignored, because of course he is. Fuckin’ rich people.

“Tim, you will be Kimberly Jackson, Jacob’s fiancée, currently unemployed.”

“WHAT?!” they squawk in unison.

“Is this necessary?” Tim demands. “Can’t I be his brother instead?”

Batman shakes his head. “Unfortunately, you can’t pass as Hispanic and the cartel is not exactly welcoming toward same-sex couples. Being mere roommates doesn’t present you as enough of a singular unit, which would be a tactical disadvantage.”

“You trying to marry me off, B?” Jason grins. “Pretty sure not even Jersey has legalized arranged marriage between brothers, ‘specially not if one of ‘em’s dead and the other’s a minor.”

Tim goes pink and stumbles over his next suggestion. “Could Steph do this instead? She’d be way better at the SoCal girl act than me. I’m not even a girl.”

“Coulda fooled me, pretty boy.” Jason grins cheekily at the glare leveled in his direction.

It’s a testament to the hooligans he puts up with regularly that Batman doesn’t even bat an eye. “I need your mind on this, too, Tim. There are a lot of variables and potential situations that will need to be monitored. This will take a considerable amount of time and care.”

“Betcha he already asked her and she said no.” Jason’s grin hasn’t faltered; Tim’s flustered pout is the most entertaining part of this mission so far.

“If they’re homophobic,” Tim says, voice taking on a reedy, nervous edge, “they’re definitely transphobic. I’m not going to be able to pass as a cis woman for long.”

Jason gives him a sidelong glance, considering. Tim’s shoulder-to-hip ratio is definitely off, but he’s small, slimmer than the rest of the Bats. With his high cheekbones and those plush lips, strategic makeup and clothing would be pretty damn convincing, actually.

“I have confidence in you.” Batman apparently sees the same thing Jason does, and he tries not to focus on how that makes his blood curdle. Instead he focuses back on Tim’s mouth, and really, it’d be a shame not to see it painted up at least once.

“Great,” Tim says, voice cracking.

“I also have a voice modulator to keep your voice in a higher octave without your having to think about it,” Batman continues, “which will help obscure your Adam’s apple as well. Everything else, I trust you’re experienced enough with that it won’t be an issue.”

Hel-lo. Jason hopes there are pictures of this. The blackmail alone would be worth it. Maybe he dodged a bullet by getting himself blown up — _he_ certainly never had to put on a dress. He knows Dick had to, before him. His own tenure as Robin was probably too short. Little miracles.

Tim covers his face to hide the bright red that has crept up over his cheeks. “I want you to know that I hate you for this,” he mutters. “I can’t believe you’re going to make me live as a woman for — how long are you expecting this to take?” One of his eyes peeks out between his fingers, glaring with suspicion that would be more terrifying if he wasn’t still tomato-red.

Batman seems to be immune to it, anyway. “That entirely depends on how quickly you can convince key players to trust you.”

Cripes. “So, months,” Jason answers, crossing his arms. He can’t afford to leave the Alley that long unattended. “You know the last time I took a breather for more than a week, I came back to a full-on gang war going down in the Bowery?”

The red drains out of Tim’s face, hands falling into fists at his sides. He looks like he can’t decide between rage or grief and has settled somewhere in the middle, mouth a frozen line. “I don’t know what you owe me yet, but expect me to cash in on about a hundred blank-check favors for this, Batman.” He spits the title like it’s a slur.

Tim’s going to decide to land on rage any second now and Jason does _not_  want to be in the room when that happens. He’s doing better at keeping himself from going full Lazarus Rampage, but seeing other people lose it is just as bad a trigger as anything else traumatic he’s dealt with. Time to cut this short. “You’re not shipping us out immediately, are you?”

“No,” Batman says, closing his fingertips midair. The holoscreen window shrinks and disappears. “You two need to work on your cover identities and their history together. You have two weeks. The next shipment is due to hit the border in three, and I’d like to have some idea of the social terrain before then.”

Taking that as his cue to be dismissed, Jason starts back toward the bike he rode in on. “Guess I’m gonna work on my tan,” he throws over his shoulder without looking back.

Hopefully he can muscle his way into the ranks in San Diego without needing too much time at it.

 

***

 

“This isn’t funny!” Tim groans into his phone, flopping halfway onto his bed. On the other end of the line, Steph cackles.

“When I told B to fuck off, I thought he’d ask Babs or something, not _you!_ ” Tim’s a little glad for the distance the phone call affords him; he’s not sure he wouldn’t be punching her in the stupid face right now if they were having this conversation in person.

“This is because of the pining comment, isn’t it?” Tim slides off the bed, landing on the floor with a slight thump. “It was a _joke_.”

“Lesson learned, never joke about his obvious thing for Big Blue.” Tim can hear the clack of her nails as she drums them against a table. “Want my help making you into a real girl, Timmy?”

“No,” he grouses, even though he knows he’s in over his head. There’s silence, one he knows contains Steph’s eyebrows raised in judgment. He sighs. “Okay, fine, yes, but you had better take it seriously.”

“Timmy,” Steph says with false offense, “How dare you assume I wouldn’t take transforming my ex-boyfriend into the perfect SoCal girl _seriously_.” A beat, and her evil grin is palpable against his eardrum. “Have you ever considered going blonde?”

“I don’t think that’s Jason’s type,” Tim sputters.

“Thought about it much?”

“Shut up, no.”

“You so have.”

Tim cards a hand through his long bangs with an impatient huff. “Just meet me at the mall in an hour.”

“Make sure you come as Kimberly. Wouldn’t want to be a boy wandering around trying on all the women’s attire.” Her tone is smug. Tim really, really wants to hit something.

“I hate you,” he says instead.

“Love you, too. See you soon!” The line goes dead.

Tim groans and hits the back of his head against his mattress a few times before standing and taking a look at himself in the mirror hanging beside his closet doors. “It was nice knowing you, Timothy,” he says morosely to his reflection, before opening the closet and pulling out a nondescript box tucked in the corner. Inside is a gaff, a bra, some makeup — the bare necessities for turning himself into a girl.

With a deep breath, he pulls off his shirt and gets to work.

 

***

 

Tim crawls out of his car, yanking at the hem of his dress where it rode up during the drive over. He feels way too exposed like this, bare legs rubbing together as he finds his balance on the stupidly-tall heels he’s wearing.

Someone parked a few cars over lets out a piercing whistle. “Want those legs around my face, gorgeous!”

Tim shoots the man a glare, voice drying up in his throat. He slams his car door a little harder than necessary and wishes he had different girl shoes than these simple black stilettos. He hasn’t practiced recently at walking in heels, and it shows. His steps are small and just a little unsteady. He’d like nothing more than to jog into the building before he got hit on again. At that point, he probably couldn’t be held accountable for what he’d do in retaliation.

Steph is sitting just inside on a bench, engrossed in her phone. Tim awkwardly clears his throat and shifts, feeling the lycra of his gaff grind together at his inner thigh almost obscenely. Steph’s gaze shoots up and she stares at him, eyes widening, a grin slowly taking over her face.

“Damn,” she says, standing to take his arm in hers and sliding her phone into her purse. “Not really a SoCal look, but I _love_  it.”

“Thanks,” Tim mumbles, feeling excruciatingly self-conscious. He’s never really been out in public like this without an immediate mission objective, and he’s finding it hard to focus on anything but the stares he swears he’s getting from everyone around him. He tugs at the dress again, wishing for a few more inches of coverage. This is his only “casual” girl gear, but he’s feeling more and more like he should be standing on some corner of the Bowery. He regrets his choice in lip shade, a deep wine red by Giorgio Armani from the Ecstasy Shine line (Garçonne, $38). He catches his reflection in a shop window they’re walking past and pauses a moment, feeling dizzy and out of control at the Not-Tim-Drake model-slash-prostitute staring back at him.

“Kim?” Steph asks lightly, with vague concern, and that name and this strange face are so _wrong_ —

“I can’t do this,” he blurts, and the voice that comes out isn’t his either, much too high with help from the modulator, his nerves making it come out breathy. His gasps for air would be hilarious and chipmunk-high if he weren’t having a _goddamn panic attack_. This is supposed to be him for the next foreseeable future, and everything about it feels tight and pinching and claustrophobic, like a nightmare settled into his skin.

“Hey, woah, it’s fine, it’s okay, I’m here, dude.” Steph stumbles over the platitudes as she rubs gentle circles into the space between Tim's shoulder blades, fingernails catching on the bra he’s wearing under this little black travesty. It’s the sapphire lace one Bruce bought him for that case where he thought his honeypot might have to cross into shirtless territory. He’s going to be in this hell for months, alongside a man he’s positive hates his guts, on the opposite side of the country, undercover as a stranger so he can’t even reach out to the Titans—

“ _Tim_.” Steph’s voice cuts into his rapidly spiraling thoughts like a well-aimed batarang. The name is close enough to his cover that it probably goes unnoticed; thank Bruce for small favors. He pulls in a gulp of air and then another, glancing down to find his diligently painted nails (Butter London, Royal Appointment, $18) biting into Steph’s arm. His left index finger is already chipped.

“I don’t think you’ve done that since the day we tried sex and you realized you were very much not into girls,” Steph jokes, but Tim barely hears her, focusing on the stupid nail. He spent twenty minutes on these, three coats as directed by the bottle, how in God’s name has he already chipped one?

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Steph’s thumb, gentler than she ever was when they were dating, brushes a tear away. “Careful,” she murmurs, “you’ll make your eyeliner run, and you’ve managed to do your wings better than I ever have. I kind of hate you for that.” She pulls him toward her tightly, carding fingers through his hair. Belatedly, he realizes people are staring.

“Um,” he says, pulling from his best friend’s grasp to address the gawkers. “I’m fine. Boyfriend stuff.”

Kimberly is apparently shaping up not to have a backbone, and he _hates it_. He feels like he needs to defend himself for everything, that he’s on display for everyone’s scrutiny. Usually it’s just for an evening and he plays that hyperawareness to his advantage; he’s never had to be a girl full time. He’s already exhausted.

“Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be crying. Smile, baby,” some old man croons, stunning him to silence again. Stephanie immediately starts cursing at him and shaking her fist to punctuate the threats streaming from her tongue like a particularly violent hailstorm. When he’s finally scared off, Tim catches Steph’s sleeve.

“I fucking hate men,” she mutters.

“...Is it always like this? I mean.” Tim chews on his lip, eyes casting down to the faux-marble tile beneath his heels. He curls his toes inside the claustrophobic shoes and considers reevaluating Kimmy. She’s a sneakers girl, definitely. At the very least ballet flats.

“Getting slobbered on by entitled douchebags because you dressed up a little? Yeah, pretty much.”

Tim sighs. “Some guy in the parking lot made lewd comments about my legs, too.”

“Gross. Starbucks to make it better?”

Tim brightens considerably. “What kind of girl do you think I am, chai latte frappe or Pike roast with a shot of caramel and an inch of 2%?”

Steph links arms with him again as they trailblaze toward their caffeine sugar bombs. “Pike roast,” she says finally after some thought. “You’re a little high maintenance  but don’t want to make other people feel obligated to satisfy you, so you take on the extra work yourself.”

“...Yeah,” he giggles nervously, and his laugh sounds so delicate now. The self deprecation feels more like poor self esteem than anything sarcastic. “That sounds right.”

 

***

 

“This is never going to work,” Tim grouses, hands cupping his very-not-booby-chest in the bikini top they’d found a few hours and hundreds of dollars later. “I’m obviously a frigging boy, _look_  at this.”

“You could just… never swim?” Steph suggests.

He glares at her. “I’m from _Los Angeles_ , Stephanie.”

“So? You’ve got kind of a goth-punk aesthetic going anyway, that’s like anti-swimming, right? Vampire allergic to the sun kinda lifestyle?”

“You are not being very helpful.”

Stephanie makes an animal sound of frustration. “What do you _want_  me to say, your pecs look enough like tits that no one will notice? Because we both know that’s bullshit. People are going to be staring non-stop at your titties, you’re gorgeous.”

“Don’t call them that,” Tim stammers, cupped hands becoming more defensive over his chest.

“I’m not seeing a solution here, Kimberly.” She spits the name out, and she probably didn’t mean it, but it feels like a knife slicing between a few of his ribs. He’s Kimberly now, probably going to be for at least six months, if not longer, knowing how reticent most gangs are toward fresh meat learning their trade secrets.

His hands smooth down his chest to rest on his stomach as he looks at himself in the mirror, considering. He already has so many scars, what’s two more?

“What if,” he says quietly, waiting for Steph to calm down, “I got implants?”

“Wait, _what?_ ” So much for having a calm, rational discussion about this.

“I can always get them removed later. They’re not permanent.” He already doesn’t recognize himself in the mirror. The less reminders of Timothy, the easier it will be to become Kimberly. It would save him the ten minutes of fighting with his falsies to get them to look natural every morning, too.

Stephanie is silent, which is never a good sign; he meets her eyes in the mirror, perfectly-sculpted eyebrow lifting in a demand for her thoughts.

“This kind of dedication,” she says finally, refusing to hold eye contact, “...I don’t think it’s healthy.”

“Living for half a year at best to infiltrate a drug cartel as a woman is hardly healthy either, but I still have to do it.” He prowls over to his purse to pull out his phone (re-housed in a case with red and black rhinestones, courtesy of Hot Topic) to start researching plastic surgeons.

“You’re going to be miserable.” It’s the first she’s really acknowledged the magnitude of what Bruce is asking of him this time, and it gives him pause.

“I’m going to be miserable anyway,” he murmurs, offering a small smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Might as well be miserable and efficient.”

Steph purses her lips but doesn’t argue.

The rest of their shopping trip is conducted largely in silence. Kimmy’s aesthetic has already been well-established, so it’s easy enough to find additional pieces for her wardrobe without much discussion. Tim leaves with a trunk full of new clothing and a hollow feeling in his chest that he doesn’t expect will go away for the next foreseeable future.

 

***

 

He’d expected some argument, if not about the $12,000 price tag, then about whether he’d considered this to its fullest. Instead, when Tim tells Bruce that he’s booked an appointment the following morning for breast augmentation surgery and he needs twelve grand and a forged psychologist’s note detailing the procedure’s importance for Kimberly’s gender expression and self esteem, all he receives is a lengthy assessing stare and then a curt nod.

“You’re not going to argue?” Tim says after he picks his jaw off the floor. He has never gotten elaborate, expensive plans approved without Bruce tearing at every potential hole in his logic first.

“I trust your judgment. Make sure to let Jason know. He should be there to practice your relationship dynamic,” Bruce says, returning his concentration to the paperwork he’d brought home from his day job. A clear dismissal.

Tim hates the idea, but he’s not going to look a gift horse in the mouth. “Okay,” he says past the desert in his throat. He stands waiting for a few more moments, but Bruce’s focus is already elsewhere, and there’s nothing to do about it unless he wants to be fixed with a full-force Batman glare.

He texts Jason.

It only takes him five minutes to respond, but it feels like an eternity. Images of Jason camped out on some rooftop, wearing nothing but underwear to soak up the sun, trample unbidden through his mind’s eye.

 

He realizes, when he heads back up into the manor and gets a double-take from Alfred, that he never removed any of his Kimmy mask. He’s thankful, at the very least, for the change in outfit from the original party dress; he’s wearing pants now, black skinny jeans artfully torn at the knee and crease of his upper thigh, and a strappy bralet that will look much more natural after tomorrow’s procedure. He’s still getting used to the feeling of void between his legs, but it’s not physically uncomfortable, just psychologically so. It feels — not quite obscene, but something, a prickling that feels like he’s underdressed and shouldn’t be out in public. The urge to cup himself and feel the smooth mound where there should be a penis and testicles is maddening, but he valiantly ignores it, pressing his thighs together as he walks instead.

He’s been a girl for nearly five hours — he’s been _himself_  as a girl for nearly five hours — and it feels realer, somehow, than anytime he’s played the role for an evening mission. He tries not to let that frighten him.

Instead, he keeps himself in the headspace between Timothy and Kimberly and works on an outline for tomorrow’s debut of Mr. and Future-Mrs. Martinez. Jason is just going to have to go along with whatever he comes up with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fake gang, fake cartel, based on real gangs and real cartels. Best not call these people down on my head for realsies, lmao.
> 
> If anyone has any random San Diego facts or pieces of culture, or know of movies etc I should look at to get ideas, please send them along! I’ve never actually been, so I’m right now doing a cobbled-together interpretation based on gang documentaries, Google Maps, GTA: Los Santos, and Craigslist.


	2. Go Big or Go Home

“The best I can say, it's like this. A man's in his skin, see, like a nut in its shell ... It's hard and strong, that shell, and it's all full of him. Full of grand man-meat, man-self. And that's all. That's all there is.

A woman's a different thing entirely. Who knows where a woman begins and ends?”

— Tehanu, Ursula K. Le Guin

 

Jason doesn’t peel himself from the roof of his favorite safe house until the sun begins to set, the dying light turning the smog ruddy like his skin. He didn’t quite burn, but it’s close; it’ll sink into a deep tan, which he won’t have to try too hard to maintain if he’s doing construction work most daytime hours. This is as far as he’s going to take this farce. He hates putting on characters. As much as he loves the Bard, Goethe, Cervantes, he much prefers to be the audience. He can’t lie in his own skin so easily. Jacob Martinez will just have to be the same person as Jason Todd, with a few revisionist notes to have him growing up in California instead of Gotham. Or — maybe he grew up in Vegas. That would certainly fit with the disparity of wealth and the struggling dirt poor he’s used to.

This would be easy enough, if not for Tim throwing a wrench in it. He doesn’t know enough about Tim as a person, just about his training. Training which was apparently hammered so deep the kid is prepared to get tits for this mission. Jason wonders if that was Bruce’s idea, thinking wildly out of the box and social acceptability. That Tim would follow that order without question…

Well. When Jason was Robin and Batman said ‘jump’, he’d do it, but _he_  got to decide how high.

And maybe that’s it, why B would replace him so soon. Maybe the camaraderie, the boyish goofing off they’d do on slow nights, was the only thing keeping Jason around, and after he was gone... After he was gone, Batman realized how shit a partner he really was and sought out someone who _would_ follow his every whim. _Fuck_.

Jason scrubs at his face and scowls into the darkness as he tromps back down the roof access stairway, taking the steps three at a time. He’s got to be at least marginally familiar enough with whoever the hell Kimberly Jackson is going to be, at least enough to improv when necessary at the surgeon’s tomorrow. Which means the manor, and fighting over the characteristics he’d look for in a fiancée.

He hates Bruce with every fiber of his being for this, he really does.

The roar of the streets is dull past his helmet, air whipping into his unzipped leather jacket as he speeds to Kane Memorial Bridge and onward. The cold bites at him, keeping him present and in the moment; he keeps getting pulled into his head, cycling through the same self-hatred he catalogues every night before stepping out into the bowels of the city to stain his soul with a little more blood and guts. He can’t wallow right now, he has to be top of his game and in control of this situation.

It helps, the way the night embraces him like an old friend as he screams up the private, mile-long drive, through foliage carefully curated to hide road visibility from above while maintaining a natural veneer. Every goddamn detail, that paranoid bastard — no. He’s in control tonight.

The Cave swallows him whole for the second time that day. He tries not to let it rattle him, as much as this place feels like a cage now. He jumps off his bike before the engine stops idling, stalking into the main chamber with his game face on.

Bruce is at the computer station, already suited up, cowl resting at his back like some goth kid’s idea of a casual hoodie. He’s not going to say anything to the man, and Bruce doesn’t even spare him a _glance_ , but he’s just heading to the warm-up mats to look for Tim when the man’s dulcet tones curl toward him anyway.

“She’s upstairs.”

Jason halts mid-step, eyebrows pulling together in confusion as he turns for a confrontation. “Who?”

And he _still_  doesn’t deign him with so much as a flick of his eyes upward, his fingers not even _pausing_  at the keyboard. “Kimberly.”

The chill of the Cave air injects itself into his muscles, spreading tendrils of ice cracking into his veins. “The fuck? He’s not _actually_ Kimberly, you sick freak.”

A minute pause, barely enough for a breath of air, and he starts up again, clacking keys echoing high into the stalactites. “Try telling her that. She’s very dedicated to developing her role this evening.”

“...You’re fucked up. You both are,” Jason mutters. It feels too damn far to the elevator, and the wait too long. He punches the call button rapidly until the doors slide open soundlessly, not announcing the elevator’s arrival with so much as a whisper. What’s the stupid point of elevator stealth in your own goddamn secret base in your own goddamn house, Jason wants to know. He steps into the sleek metal box and hits *G, and he doesn’t have to wait at all before the doors glide shut like liquid and he begins to rise.

There’s a computer tablet in the wall above the floor buttons that cycles through weather statistics, police scanner activity, recent headlines. Tonight will have a high of 76 degrees, partly cloudy with 50% humidity and a 15% chance for precipitation. Smog levels are high, but they always are; sometimes Jason thinks Gothamites should be classified as metas for the sheer lung strength they must all have after thriving for decades on this shit.

Alfred is waiting at the elevator door for him when it opens. “Master Jason,” he says with a cautious smile, like he’s not sure what kind of response to expect. B probably told him Jason was a loose canon.

He swallows the scowl at that thought and yanks the startled butler into a hug. “Hey, Alfie, it’s been a while.”

“Indeed it has,” he says, sounding relieved and about as affectionate as you can sound with that stiff British upper lip.

Jason extracts himself so the old man doesn’t start to feel awkward from the excessive violation of personal space; who knows how recently Dickie was here? “Have you seen Tim?”

“That’s… ah.” It’s rare Alfred is at a loss for words. Jason’s eyebrows climb the cliff wall of his forehead. “Check the library, I believe… that was where I last saw…”

Jason claps a hand on Alfie’s shoulder to give him reprieve. “Thanks. D’you think you could bring over some cocoa at some point? I have a feeling it’s going to be a long night.”

“Certainly, Master Jason. It’s good to have you home, even if briefly.”

Home. Jason tries not to focus too much on that, nodding and starting for the library. It sits just behind the grand staircase, huge bay windows overlooking the manor grounds. If anywhere in this fucking mansion is still home, it’s here, surrounded by the smell of books hundreds of years old, ancient paper and leather, tucked carefully in their shelves. He closes his eyes as he enters, inhaling deeply to ground himself.

Instead of its usual placid silence, there’s a clatter of keystrokes filling the large space, a little too similar to the situation in the Cave, if Jason’s being honest. He opens his eyes to make a scathing remark, but his voice gets caught in his throat like a startled bird too terrified to realize it’s right beside an open window.

“Tim?” he finally manages, and the boy — girl? — looks up at him.

“Oh, hi,” he (she?) says, and the modulated voice isn’t high, exactly, but definitely higher, a velvet purr like a classic actress that would be opposite Bing Crosby or James Stewart. Audrey Hepburn, maybe, or Grace Kelly. Tim is — not Tim anymore, clearly, curled with propped up feet in one of the burgundy wingbacks, laptop settled over slender hips, painted fingernails poised over the keys. The makeup job is impeccable, widening eyes and plumping lips, and those cheekbones could slice him _right up_ —

He hates Bruce for this mission. He _loves_  Bruce for this mission. He has no idea how he’s going to last six months or longer without absolutely losing his goddamn _mind_  on this mission.

“Jay?” the fucking goddess in the chair says like the nickname from those wine-kissed lips doesn’t go straight to his _cock_ , perfectly-threaded eyebrow raising at him with a confident arrogance that has always got his goat on any powerful woman’s face, and he is going to lose his shit _right here_ , barely three horrible and wonderful seconds into meeting his future fiancée.

 _Fuck_. He has to sit down and hide his lap before she notices (and he can’t bring himself to refer to her as he, right now, and suddenly Bruce’s insistence at calling her Kimberly instead of Timothy makes _sense_ ). He practically flings himself at a nearby chaise lounge and crooks a knee up to block the view, trying to get his breathing under control.

“I’m glad I pegged your type correctly,” she says, mockingly. Jason has to bite his tongue to keep from whimpering, just a little. “Realistic chemistry will make this _so_  much easier.”

“Fuck you,” he grits out, and the laugh that rips from her she clearly stole from Babs, a sharply cruel and playful thing that makes his toes curl.

“This is only make believe, dear Jacob,” she purrs, cat about to pounce on the panicked bird of his heart, “so you’ll have to make do with _pretending_.” She clears her throat and the minx act drops so suddenly, Jason feels like he got socked in the gut. “Anyway, we need to work on our background story, how we met, our likes and dislikes, that kind of thing.”

“Uh,” Jason says helpfully, willing his mind to get back online, “Right.”

“So, realistically, the best reason I’d wear the same choker every day is if it’s actually a collar and we have a Dom/sub dynamic. I already ordered a simple black leather one, but if you have another preference let me know.” Her fingers begin to fly over the keys again. His mouth goes dry.

“Hang… hang on a sec, I don’t like that,” he stammers, discomfort coiling heavy and tight in his lungs. “I’m not gonna… I can’t pretend to _own_  you.”

She levels him with a Look with a capital L. “It’s just our story if someone happens to ask. Calm down.”

“No,” he says, “right out the gate and it’s already — _no_.”

She sighs and types for a few seconds, then turns the computer around to face him. “Look. It doesn’t have to include a single element of sadomasochism or degradation if that’s what’s making you uncomfortable. Plenty of vanilla relationships have a thread of possessiveness to them, we’re just taking it to its logical conclusion.” On her screen, an article is pulled up titled ‘D/s 101: Myths and Facts.’ He can’t quite bring himself to read further.

She sighs again and turns her laptop back around. “I’ll email it to you for later. By the way, you have a new email address and Facebook. We just need to populate it with information. I’ve already created an interwoven network of 79 fake friends to give us credence at first glance. My social media presence is mostly up-to-date across all platforms, barring anything specific regarding Jacob. We really need to take kitschy couples photos.”

“I assume those words mean things,” he says, trying for light and humorous but ending up sounding confused and overwhelmed.

“...I guess we don’t need your Facebook to be entirely active, if you’re not the type to use it ordinarily.” She sounds a little judgmental about it, like it’s a crime that he doesn’t have a computer hotwired into his hip at all times like she does.

“Excuse _me_ , princess,” he grouses, reminding himself that this is Timothy Drake, Robin-stealer, Identity Thief Extraordinaire. Not actually a new girl.

Tim rolls her — his? — _her_  eyes. Better to settle into the mindset that this person is Kimberly now so it’s more natural a playact later, when it matters. “I know you’re missing half a decade, but we’re in the  _twenty-first_  century now, Jay.”

“Just because I don’t use Facebook doesn’t mean I don’t fucking know what it is,” Jason snaps.

“Temper, babe,” Tim — _Kimmy_ — says like it’s something she calls him on frequently, only half listening. “What do you think about this ring?” The laptop is thrust at him again, this time bearing a much safer site with an engagement ring for… $21,500.

“Damn, spare no expense,” he snorts. The ring is nice, he guesses, as far as he’s familiar with rings, a big rock in the middle with some leafy silver filigree things bordering it. So not worth that much money in his mind, but it’s apparently an ‘antique’ from the 20’s.

She glances at the price as if she hadn’t noticed it before he pointed it out, which may very well be the case. She goes to chew her lip and then seems to think better of it, pressing her teeth into her bottom lip once before letting go. Jason stares. “Do you think they’ll notice how expensive it is?”

“Will they notice? Fuck yes they will. Will they know just _how_  expensive? Probably not, unless one of them is moonlighting as a jewelry thief because a life of drug running isn’t enough to fund their lifestyle.”

“Very funny,” she says drily, clicking around a bit. “I’m ordering it and asking for rush shipping. Figure out a proposal in the next two weeks, I want us to have really done it so we have a real, fresh memory to recount when people ask.”

“Wait, what?”

The glare she levels at him is sincerely withering. “I know you’re smarter than this, Jay, _please_  pay attention.”

He gulps. “What, uh… what kind of proposal are you looking for?”

“You’re not going to make me do all the work,” she says, closing the laptop with a decidedly bitchy snap. “Now. How did Kimmy and Jay meet?”  
  


***  
 

Tim hates everything.

They’re currently in Toronto, sitting in the waiting room of one Dr. Anjala Suresh, a plastic surgeon from Nepal with nothing but rave reviews from both middle-aged women hoping to keep their husbands’ eyes from wandering and the transgender element. It was tricky getting an appointment with this little notice, but Tim — and his Wayne-funded wallet — is very persuasive.

Beside him, Jay Martinez sips his coffee, leg bouncing obnoxiously against Tim’s thigh. It’s as if he wants to make absolutely sure Tim realizes how much he’s missing his caffeine this morning. He glares and Jay just grins easily, reaching over to squeeze the back of his neck where the sub collar should be, left behind for this morning’s procedure. It’s both comforting and possessive and Tim fights a shiver — Kimmy is used to this, even if he’s not. “Don’t worry, _mi gaviota_. We’ll get you caffeine as soon as the doc gives the okay.”

Instead of replying, Tim tucks himself into the crook of Jay’s arm and snuggles into his shoulder. Jay’s hand smoothly transitions to playing with the hair beside his ear. He feels naked today: no falsies, just a sports bra to leave the doctor’s office in, and bare minimum for makeup with just eyeliner and a shiny lip gloss. Even his clothing is lazy, purple sweatpants he borrowed from Steph and an oversized and faded-out Gotham Knights t-shirt he borrowed from Jason. He feels uncomfortably more like Timothy than like Kimberly. The idea of breasts doesn’t come with the excitement he imagines Kimmy would feel. It just comes with a nauseating trepidation and something oddly like shame.

As if he can sense Tim’s discomfort, Jay leans in and presses his lips to Tim’s forehead. “You know you can still back out of this,” he murmurs against skin, stroking tiny circles into the sensitive skin behind Tim’s earlobe. “I won’t judge you. We’ll work it out.”

Tim shakes his head firmly. “I’m following through on this.”

A nurse pops out of the door to the procedure rooms with a clipboard. “Kimberly?”

Jay lets go of him and Tim takes a deep breath before standing up, feeling Jay following close behind. Large coarse hands smooth over his shoulders; he hadn’t even known he was holding tension in them. He wills himself to relax and follows the nurse. Jay snags his hand on the way there.

Tim thinks he should probably tell him that PDA isn’t really necessary to make people believe they’re dating, but it feels nice, pulling up echoes of the crush he had ages ago, when Jason was still the Boy Wonder and Tim was sneaking photos.

The nurse leads them to a room that feels a lot more like a lounge than an examination room, save for the medical table in the corner. Jay pulls him down into a plush couch and goes back to petting him.

“I’m Marian. I’ll be helping to take care of you today. Dr. Suresh will be right with you. After your consultation, I’ll be back to take vitals and prepare you for surgery. Usually these would be separate appointments, but I understand you two are moving in a few weeks?”

Tim nods, pulling his voice as high as he can get it naturally and donning Kimmy like a particularly feminine hat. “That’s right. I would have done this much sooner, but I only just convinced my dad to foot the bill.” His mouth twists wryly.

Jay presses his mouth to Tim’s temple and then says with a Spanish affectation to his voice, “I told her I’d get a loan out for it but she didn’t want that hanging over us.”

“And you must be Mr. Martinez..?” Marian prompts, not unkindly.

“Ay, lo siento. That’s me, Jay, Kimmy’s boyfriend. I’m allowed to stay, sí? She gets nervous in hospitals.”

Marian nods. “You can’t be in the room while the actual procedure is happening but you can be there for everything else.” Tim must have a horrified look because the nurse laughs and says, “You’ll be under general anesthesia, honey, you won’t even notice he’s not there.”

Jay squeezes Tim's neck again and he tries his best to relax.

“I’ll go let Dr. Suresh know you’re here.”

As soon as the nurse is out of the room and the door clicks shut, Tim presses his face into Jay’s shoulder and screams quietly. The gentle petting is noticeably absent; instead, he gets a gruff and slightly impatient pat on the back, like a reticent grandchild trying to get their Nana to let go of a hug that’s gone on way too long. Right. They don’t have an audience right now.

“Seriously, you don’t have to do this,” Jason grumbles against his hair. “We can fuck off right now and, I don’t know, pay a friggin’ witch to give you a rack.”

Tim pulls back and eyes him with an unamused pout. “I looked into that already,” he says, doing a very good job, he thinks, of keeping a level tone. “Zatanna said temporary cosmetic biomorphic spells have a shelf life and I’d need to get it redone every couple months. The exact shelf life varies depending on individual body chemistry. I’m not willing to risk not having a clear idea of when I’d need re-feminizing and lose my breasts in front of someone who could murder me for it.”

“I can’t believe you’d voluntarily undergo boob surgery instead of magic,” Jason snorts. “At least promise to get Zee to throw some healing spells at you to speed up recovery. I looked at post-op photos this morning and they were _brutal_.”

Tim valiantly fights the urge to bury his face in Jason’s shoulder again; instead he balls his fists against his thighs and does some autosomal reset breathing.

There’s a knock on the door. Both Tim and Jason jump — years of Batman training keeping their hyper-vigilance cranked to eleven — and then the door opens, a middle-aged South Asian woman wearing a labcoat coming into the room with a folder. Tim grabs Jay’s hand quickly and tries not to hyperventilate. In six seconds through the nose, out eight seconds through the mouth. Six, eight. Six…

“Dr. Suresh,” Jay says to break the silence, “I don’t know if your nurse told you I’m here. Jay Martinez, Kimmy’s boyfriend.”

The doctor smiles at him. “She did mention you, and I am glad you’re here. Most women experience emotional reactions to anesthesia and waking up with a larger chest, so it is good to have you for support.” She turns to Tim. “Kimberly, it is good to meet you. I’m very pleased to work with you on this next step in your journey.”

Tim offers a hand to shake. “Thank you _so much_  for doing this all in one day, I know that’s usually absolutely not an option.”

“Your father was very, ah… _apologetic_  about neglecting to follow through for you sooner.” Dr. Suresh looks a little uncomfortable, a little sheepish; getting tens of thousands of dollars in essentially bribe money will do that to a person, Tim supposes.

“Thank you,” Tim says again, squeezing Jay’s hand. Jay squeezes back. “So, um, I know this is the part you explain everything to me and we decide what I want, but I already have that figured out, I think?”

Beside him, almost imperceptibly, Jay snorts. Tim digs his fingernails into the hand he’s holding captive. Jay taps out an SOS with his thumb but Tim doesn’t let up until the fourth repetition.

“What were you thinking?” Dr. Suresh asks, giving their hands a curious look.

“Well.” Tim wets his lips, his mouth feeling abruptly dry. “I do mixed martial arts, so I can’t do under the muscle placement, but I also understand that it’s harder to make it look natural when the implant is placed on top of the pectoral instead of beneath. I also, um, probably won’t ever undergo HRT for the same reason, so there’s not a lot of fat up top. Muscle condition is really important to me.”

Dr. Suresh nods. “You are right, there is not much we can do to make it appear natural under your conditions. Some women are eligible to receive liposculpting to smooth the profile using fat deposits from other areas of their body, but it appears we do not have much to work with.” She laughs. “You are very fit. And small.”

“If it already won’t look natural, you should go bigger, Gaviota,” Jay jokes. “Then it’ll just look like you wanted bigger than what you were born with.”

Tim flushes a little, but forces himself to laugh, to react even though he feels like he’s looking at them through frosted glass. “I don’t want to look like a Barbie, Jacob.”

“It is a good thought, though,” Dr. Suresh says. “How about we look at sizes compared to your frame and see how we feel about it?”

Tim finds himself nodding, feeling about a million miles away from his body. It’s no longer his body, but Kimmy’s body. She becomes another layer between him and the real world, tucking Timothy deep into the folds of his awareness.

“Alright,” Kimmy says. “Let’s do this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was curious, [here’s the ring I was looking at.](https://www.etsy.com/listing/279401604/antique-engagement-ring-antique-1920s?ga_order=price_desc&ga_search_type=all&ga_view_type=gallery&ga_search_query=antique%20engagement%20ring&ref=sr_gallery_25) Yes, it’s real, and yes, it’s really that expensive. Probably the first and only time I’m going to sort a search from highest to lowest price, hahaha.


	3. World’s Greatest Liar

You may know, who I am  
Only I know, who I’m not  
  
Nothing else matters.

— Identity, [Mystic Ink](https://hellopoetry.com/u706582/)

 

It figures that the one thing Tim didn’t factor into this whole disaster was the amount of sleep he’d be expected to get post-op. He’d begrudgingly accepted the other caveats: he can’t exercise for at least two weeks, he can’t lift more than 5 pounds, he has to change the bandages and empty his drainage bags every few hours, and he has to pop a handful of pills twice a day to avoid infection and speed healing.

Those things, he can handle.

Being expected to sleep at least ten hours a day? Absolutely not. He can’t even have caffeine until week two, something about vein dilation and blood flow. He doesn’t remember fully what the explanation was. It was explained to him (well, mostly Jason) as he was just waking from the procedure, and his mind was fuzzy with anesthetic and sheer anger at the idea that anyone would dare withhold coffee from him, after everything he’s done, after the amount of dedication he’s given to this identity.

Jason is who knows where, probably savoring his time apart from Tim while he still can. The only person Tim has interacted with in the 48 hours since getting back from Toronto is Alfred, who has been helping him with the bandages and making sure he eats. It might be the most humiliating thing he’s ever gone through, having Alfred feeling up his new breasts at least five times a day. Alfred, of course, is entirely professional about it, which somehow makes it worse.

It all still feels unreal, like the swells of artificial fat on his chest are hallucinations. Everything feels a little bit underwater anyway, with all the medication he’s on. He hasn’t quite felt at home in his body since pre-surgery prep. He and Kimmy are entwined together beneath the drug haze. They are both separate entities and the same; twins, somehow, and a single being together. She’s the other side of his coin.

He doesn’t know who either of them is anymore. He doesn’t know who he is. Maybe right now he’s just the drugs. All he is: the drugs and the dogged attempts at staying awake. Which he’s failing at.

It doesn’t help that Alfred is keeping him on bedrest. He said it was for Tim’s own good, to keep him from being too active too early, and it’s frustrating how little the old butler trusts him. Alfred is right, of course, he’d definitely be out living his life as normal if he weren’t being watched like a hawk, but that’s not the point.

The _point_ is. The point. What was the point?

Drugs. Sleep. Definitely sleep.

He nestles further into his pillow nest and closes his eyes. It’s probably fine if he just takes a cat nap.

Definitely fine, actually.

The next time Alfred checks on him, he’s out, drooling softly on his pillow.

 

***

 

The ring is much too fragile and tiny to be worth nearly 22 grand, in Jason’s humble opinion. It weighs less than a bullet in the palm of his hand, something easily crushed. He tests the metal carefully and it’s sturdy, as spindly as it looks, but he still puts it back in its ring box immediately after taking a look at it.

How he’s supposed to carry this around with him for the next week is anyone’s guess. Just _thinking_ about this goddamn ring would be enough to get mugged in Gotham.

There’s also the trouble of figuring out what circumstances would make up the right time; he has no guidance from Tim or Kimmy, just a vague roiling in his gut when he thinks about the moment and how it should go. Should it be classy and expensive, like a typical fancy restaurant proposal, or was Tim looking for something a little more fine-tuned, conceptualized entirely for Kimmy? If only he knew what the hell that was.

Maybe he should ask Tim for a detailed questionnaire about Kimmy’s likes and dislikes. He’s almost positive that some kind of document like that exists already.

Okay, step back, think logically. Tim would keep threads of himself in Kimmy, since this is a long-term identity shift and the easier it is to stay in-character under all kinds of duress, the better. Stephanie could probably give Jason a few pointers, if he knew Blondie’s number.

He sighs, bites the bullet, and opens a text for Tim.

 

 

Kid must be hopped up on the good drugs. Jason stares at his phone and waits for the bouncing ellipses to resolve into another text.

 

 

He fiddles with the ring box in his palm as he starts a fresh thread.

 

 

 

Jason glares at his phone and has half a mind to chuck it. Instead he grits his teeth and types with stiff fingers.

 

 

 

 

Two hours later, he’s learned how to construct a bench out of packing crates, get out blood stains with nothing but baking soda and apple cider vinegar, how to upcycle ripped jeans into kitchen organizational storage, and an assortment of other DIY and Mommycraft things that he never expected to know (or, frankly, to be this excited to try out). He still doesn’t have a goddamn proposal plan.

He’s not terribly creative when it comes to these things, and neither, he thinks, is Jay Martinez. Dinner it is. Kimmy can get over it if it’s not as overly-specific and unique as she wanted. If she wanted that, she should’ve picked a different guy.

Now to pick the restaurant and make sure the staff is amenable to musical interruptions...

 

***

 

The fresh air feels amazing after being cooped up for a week. Jogging is still off the table, but just being able to walk at a brisk pace in the crisping autumn air is enough to get the blood pumping.

It’s obvious, really, why jogging is still a bad idea; even at a gentle speed walk, the new breasts bounce in a way that vaguely aches at the suture lines. The ache is kind of nice, though. Falsies never felt this present, this much a part of the body, which, of course not, the implants are actually under the skin. But there’s something… psychological about it, too, emotional. Kimmy exists in a way that she never had before, exists in the air escaping between red-painted lips, the Victoria’s Secret athletic wear, the new panties that make the compressed smoothing of the groin they cover look completely natural.

Tim only vaguely understood the compulsion to feel up a pair of breasts before, but he’s finding it harder and harder not to grope himself, stroke over the new softness and gasp at the way his nipples are a different kind of sensitive, now. He attributes it to boredom, being cooped up for so long with almost nothing to do.

It’s a lie, one he doesn’t even begin to believe, but it feels wrong not to try to come up with an alternative explanation, anyway.

The truth is. The truth is, after getting past the point of needing drugs, of the wounds draining less and the pain settling down, he LIKES having these, in a weird way. It’s exciting, gets him a little hot under the collar, which is evidence of some kind of neurosis or another. He’d ordinarily be researching that immediately, self-diagnosing and self-treating, but he’s not sure he wants to know what this is. He’s already very aware of how deviant he is, but this particular kink in his system feels like something he should be ashamed of. He is, a little bit. The mix of euphoria and shame is disconcerting.

If he shoves himself head-first into Kimmy’s psyche, the discomfort shifts downward, and he can deal with that a little easier. She was born with the breasts — well, at least the potential to grow them on her own — so they’re normal, expected. And it’s only really jarring when she has to go to the bathroom or get changed, that there’s an extra bit of flesh in her pants. The new panties are really very good. She doesn’t even think about it when they’re on and she’s fully present mentally.

Showering has been the hardest aspect of his — her — ...his? — new body, but that’s getting easier, too. Meditation helps, losing Timothy and Kimberly both and floating in an existence without identity, existing just in the water and the scent of the soap and shampoo, the sensation of a washcloth over smooth skin broken occasionally by scar tissue.

A morning routine that ordinarily consisted of three cups of coffee and an hour of calisthenics has been interrupted by the addition of makeup. With more practice comes speed. Kimmy’s full face can be done to perfection in under ten minutes now, and her every-day look has been hammered out; winged eyeliner and berry-tinted gloss, simple but effective. Tim’s never exactly been grateful he inherited his mother’s graceful and delicate features, but it’s certainly helping him on this mission. If Janet could only see him now.

Tim won’t think about how his father would have reacted to this. He already refuses to contemplate his reaction to Tim coming out, not now that he’ll never have the chance to reconcile and find a place for them to exist with respect and trust again.

There had been a confrontation, Jack calling him on harboring some secret from him and Dana, and he’d been on the cusp of discovering Robin, but Tim is made of secrets. It hadn’t been that hard to think of another life-altering one to admit, one that would throw his parents off the trail entirely, that would explain his sneaking around and cagey behavior. What he hadn’t anticipated was the rage that followed his admission of bisexuality (because he didn’t know for sure he didn’t like girls then, not really, and he was too chicken-shit to not give himself some kind of social escape route). Or the assumptions that he’d been sleeping around, promiscuous. Tim had taken it all in silence until his father had implied that his being on the football team (another lie, another secret to cover his biggest secret) was just an excuse to perv on his teammates. That it was no wonder Stephanie was having other boys’ children if her boyfriend was a fag.

He gave his father a black eye. Jack gave him a sprained arm, nearly broken. It’s a testament to Tim’s self control that he hadn’t completely laid out the man and sent him to the hospital.

And then it hadn’t even mattered, because Robin was discovered anyway, and his whole life fell apart from that moment forward.

Jack’s loss is still fresh enough that Tim has been finding himself thinking through excuses for his extended trip to California before remembering. Excuses were only hard after Jack’s coma, but even then, not really; his father wanted to believe the lies, most of the time.

The air is cold and sharp in his lungs the way it is only on this side of the harbor, away from most of the pollution-coughing vehicles and power centers. Sometime during his recovery, Gotham slid head-first into sweater weather. It occurs to him as he reaches the huge oak that marks the edge of the Wayne property to the north that he won’t be around for the winter. He won’t miss the Christmas galas, but he will miss Thanksgiving, and later, Alfred’s take on rugelach and Dick’s insistence on lighting a Menorah with him. Tim probably went to synagogue twice in his life, one of which was his mother’s funeral. For the most part the Drakes celebrated Christmas in his childhood, Jack being slightly better at pretending at Catholicism than his mother at practicing Judaism. It was nice, though, having someone who genuinely wanted to appreciate Tim’s roots. Getting increasingly more elaborate gifts as the days progressed was a definite perk, too.

Crap, he hadn’t even considered _food_  for the next few months. They’re undercover as poor people, so they won’t be able to do restaurants or takeout for _every_  meal, but Tim doesn’t know how to cook. He’d burn cereal if that were possible. What else do people eat? He’ll have to do research.

He forces himself to keep a slow pace on the way back to the manor, mind spinning at a speed his feet are itching to mimic. Just one more week, and he should be back to normal, relatively.

Tim fills his lungs with the chill and keeps his eyes faced forward.

 

***

 

“I’m not that hungry,” Kimmy gripes, shooting Jay a glare when he pulls her chair out for her. She’s not a _cripple_ , she’s allowed to move _chairs_. Jay just quirks an eyebrow at her and settles into the chair across from her.

They’re in a cozy little family-owned diner in the Upper East Side, at Jay’s insistence. Something to get them in the right mindset, he’d said. He definitely has a point. The tablecloth, red plaid reminiscent of summer picnics, is made of some kind of plastic that sticks to her forearms, and the cutlery is wrapped in a paper napkin. Her glass is old enough it has scratches, likely from a decade of heavy use, and the water is definitely from the tap. Kimmy doesn’t drink it, and isn’t sure why serving it to customers doesn’t constitute a health risk. Gotham water might as well be poison.

“You drink diet?” Jay asks her.

She scoffs. “Diet soda has aspartame, Jacob. Of course I don’t drink diet.”

Jay mutters something under his breath that she can’t quite catch outside of a few words here and there, _que te parió_ and _fresa_. Her Spanish isn’t good enough anymore to know what exactly he’s talking about, but she figures it has to be insulting. She glares at him. He sticks his tongue out at her. What a child.

She tells him as much. “You’re a child,” she says haughtily, almost drinking some of her water before catching herself. She grimaces at it and shoves it far enough away that she won’t grab for it again on accident.

“It’s not poison,” Jay snorts.

“This is Gotham,” she retorts. “Of course it’s poison.”

“Rich assholes think that, but I grew up on tap water and I’m fine, ain’t I?”

Kimmy isn’t so sure of that, but she’s not going to poke that particular soft spot. Instead she clears her throat and looks down at the laminated menu-cum-placemat. “Is there anything on here that isn’t drenched in oil or cheese?”

Jay rolls his eyes. “We’re eating out. Get something greasy. Don’t be a fuckin’ prima donna.”

“Not everyone is built like a tank, Jay,” Kimmy retorts. “ _Some_ of us need to consider our diets.”

“Right,” Jay glares, taking a huge gulp of his water at her. Maybe it’s some kind of power play, but mostly he’s just an idiot. And she has to pretend to be engaged to this dumbass for half a year? The glass spills on the table a little when he slams it down. “Because you’re the pinnacle of health, with your benders where you consume nothing but Red Bull and Power bars for days.”

“How did you know about that.” She tries for accusing but it just comes out paranoid.

“I got eyes everywhere, babe, you ain’t pulling nothin’ on me.”

Kimmy schools her breathing and her expression into neutrality and picks up the menu to put some kind of wall between them. “You’re going to want to work on that,” she mutters. “Your accent goes full Bowery when you’re pissed.” She doesn’t look at him, instead focusing on the description of chicken parmagiano. Breaded and fried chicken cutlet (no), melted with mozzarella and parmesan (nope), served over whole-wheat spaghetti with red sauce (absolutely not). Nothing else is all that different: fried, dairy and gluten carbs, almost no vegetables and no grilled meat to speak of. There’s a house salad but these places never have anything decent. They throw together a couple greens and croutons and call it good.

Maybe she can be high-maintenance and dictate the precise ingredients. Surely they have chicken they haven’t ruined yet. The thought of being that much of a bitch at the waiter makes her anxious, though. Swallowing her pride and setting down the menu, she clears her throat carefully. Jay looks up from where he’s hunched over his menu, one eyebrow raised with no amusement.

“Will you maybe order my food and I’ll order yours and we can switch after?” She hates how small and petulant her voice sounds.

“Why can’t you order your own damn food?” Jay asks.

“I feel awkward and bitchy.”

“That’s because you are awkward and bitchy.”

Kimmy makes an indignant, hurt noise, and something on her face must look pretty pathetic, because Jay’s face smooths out and he mutters, “Lo siento, what did you want?”

“...Salad? But with spinach if they have it, grilled chicken, maybe some boiled egg and tomato if they have fresh roma or cherry tomatoes?”

“That is not on the menu,” Jay points out helpfully.

“That’s why you need to order it,” she says with a little smile she hopes is suitably apologetic.

“You’re ridiculous,” he snorts, but shoves away from their table in a clear ‘I’m ready to order’ gesture for the waiter. “I want the burger, medium rare, onion rings instead of fries.”

“But that’s still a substitution.” She tries to sound something other than bitchy, but — why is it that his convincing tone sounds so whiny through the voice modulator? Has it always been whiny and he just didn’t notice?

“Oh my god, fine, I’ll get the damn fries.”

She hunches a little, mumbling thanks sullenly as a waitress finally materializes. The girl looks between the two of them with nervous, darting eyes, then plasters an obviously fake smile on and says, “Can I get you something to drink to start?”

Jay quirks an eyebrow at her across the table and turns a charming, if lopsided, grin up at the waitress. “Two cokes, burger, medium rare, with onion rings.” He pauses, not looking over at Kimmy, who’s trying her absolute best to refrain from kicking him under the table for being a betraying bastard. Jay continues, though, and she’s glad she didn’t attack him. “Can you make up a special salad? Spinach, grilled chicken, maybe some egg and tomato?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” the waitress says, her plastic smile pinching at the edges. Oh, god, this is exactly why Kimmy didn’t want to order it herself.

Jay seems unfazed. “Awesome. Thanks.” The lopsided grin is suddenly directed at Kimmy full-force and the air knocks out of her for a moment.

 _He’s tried to kill you multiple times,_ Tim reminds himself. _He’s not at all the boy he used to be when he was Robin. This is an act for a case._

Still, his toes curl a little in Kimmy’s purple chucks. At least it won’t be hard to pretend he’s into him. What a mess. Why is he into the dangerous types? Jason, Conner, the occasional twinge of interest toward the Riddler. He needs some serious help, probably.

He finds himself staring a little, taking in the way Jay’s presented himself. He’s dyed out the white streak in his hair, which is — disappointing, stupidly. He never realized how intriguing he found it until this moment. Jay’s complexion is definitely darker, too, sunned into an oaky brown. It makes his blue eyes pop, and Tim realizes abruptly that he’s being stared at, too.

“S-sorry,” he stammers, pulling Kimmy back on like a security blanket. Immediately she feels better; these vulnerable thoughts are Kimmy’s, not Tim’s. “You look — nice.”

Jay looks down at himself, smoothing his palms over the pressed gray button-up he’s wearing. He’s nervous? “Not as nice as you do,” he returns after an awkward pause, and there’s that lopsided smile again. Great, now _she’s_ nervous.

“This old thing?” she scoffs. The dress is neither old nor a ‘thing’; it cost her $1,200 at Neiman Marcus this morning, right after Jay had texted her their dinner plans. It’s their first date, she’s allowed to dress up, dammit.

“You’re gorgeous,” Jay says in this low, sandpapery tone that makes the hair on the back of Kimmy’s neck stand on end, a warm squeeze in her belly. She can’t help the giggle that bubbles up. She hates it, she hates herself, but to be fair, she’s never really gotten complimented on her appearance before. It’s weird.

Food comes out, then, and she’s never been more grateful for a sad excuse of a salad. It’s iceberg lettuce, not spinach; the tomatoes are heirloom which is _fine_ , really; the chicken looks dry from here; and for some inexplicable reason instead of eggs they’ve put entire rings of raw red onion on it. It’s beautiful.

They eat in silence for what feels like an hour, but is probably only fifteen minutes. Jay polishes off his burger at breakneck speed and mumbles about the restroom, whisking himself away.

Kimmy steals a few of his onion rings while he’s gone.

Without him there to stare at, she’s able to breathe a little easier, process through her thoughts a little easier.

Fact: Jason Peter Todd, second Robin, current Red Hood, legally deceased, does not think Timothy Jackson Drake, third and current Robin, legally orphaned, is gorgeous. Jacob Martinez (does he have a middle name?) thinks Kimberly Jackson (no middle name; does _Bruce_ have a middle name?) is gorgeous.

They are separate people. He needs to work on his mental walls, clearly. He can’t afford to let himself get mixed up in Kimmy, not when Batman is depending so much on him. He has to play a role, watch Hood to make sure he plays by the rules, run support and tech, and he absolutely cannot let his emotions or, god forbidden, his _hormones_ , get in the way.

Kimberly is a post-pubescent woman who is in a long term relationship and he needs to react that way. Maybe he needs to desensitize himself to Jay’s charms somehow. Maybe he just needs to not be a virgin where it counts (with another boy, more than just receiving a handjob on the sly from Steph). It’s a wonder he didn’t manage to figure out his predilections sooner than midway through Jason’s stint as Robin, but then again, it’s not as if he’s had a lot of gentleman callers. Or any, really. Or any civilian attention from any male peer outside of Ives and Bernard, who are both very nice and all, but not high enough on the 10 point attractiveness scale to have tipped him off. Bernard more so than Ives, but his conspiracy theories are a definite turn-off. And personality in general.

Tim considers what it would be like to kiss Bernard and finds himself shuddering.

Right. Definitely, 100% not his type.

He should have figured it out with Dick, but hero-worship was enough of an explanation to plaster over the cracks of his repression, so he hadn’t really considered it. Would Dick be willing to ‘desensitize’ him? He shudders, a completely different beast from before, and accepts that he’s just a poor excuse for a brother.

How would that even go? ‘Hello, Dick, would you be willing to make out with me so I don’t jump Jason during our mission? Thanks!’ Dick’s first reaction would be to laugh, of course, but then — what? Ruffle his hair, call him little brother, tease him over it for the rest of all eternity?

Or would he agree to it? Tim knows Dick isn’t exactly the straight man he puts on for the public, a serial monogamist with a predilection for gorgeous redheaded women. He’s heard rumors about Dick and Roy, Dick and Garth, even Dick and Wally, who seems so _painfully_ straight…

He imagines the look Dick would give him, a sultry and otherworldly gaze he’s perfected after years of sleeping around. He squirms a little. His gaff is too tight and constricting and he _really_ needs to stop fantasizing about a different man while he’s on a _date_ —

Jason — Jay, Jay Martinez, not Jason — comes back to the table with a guitar. He doesn’t say a word, just pulls his chair out to give himself room to play, clears his throat, and picks out a few testing notes. He adjusts the tune of one of the strings. Tim stares.

The rest of the diner stares, too. The bustle of voices hushes, and Tim is so, so aware of the eyes on them both, that this is it, the proposal, and he’s been busy thinking about another man. He’s fricked the whole thing up. He snaps Kimmy back into place almost angrily as Jay begins to play.

His voice is soft, a little wavery with nerves, though whether that’s from the sudden audience or what she knows is coming at the end of it, she doesn’t know. He looks more at the guitar than her, and the song is in Spanish, and — he really needs to brush up on it. Spanish seemed so pedestrian compared to Cantonese, Russian, even German, but he’s lost most of it from lack of use — she forces herself to focus, biting her lip and watching Jay as close as she dares, the way his hair flops into his eyes as he leans over to cradle his instrument like a lover. The way his fingers pluck at the strings, his other hand easing into chords like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

The song trails off and he looks up at her, eyes bright. A jolt runs down her spine and she knows, this is it, this is _it_ —

He sets aside the guitar and reaches into his pocket, landing gracefully onto the floor in one knee. She tries not to think about how dirty this place is, now nice those pants are, tries to stay in the moment—

“Kimberly,” Jay says, voice just as soft as his singing, something almost too intense to look at in his eyes, “Will you marry me?”

She’s seen the ring before, obviously, she picked the damn thing out, but it’s glittering up at her from a simple black satin box and it seems different, somehow. Her hands are shaking as she reaches out for it, plucks it out of the box, slides it onto her finger. Jay continues looking up at her expectantly. Right.

“I… yes, Jay, _yes._ ” The room erupts into applause and cheers and she barely has time to process the sudden cacophony before she’s being swept to her feet and into Jay’s arms, his mouth on hers for a brief, heart-stopping moment. Lips tingle and he can’t breathe as Jay pulls away, doesn’t look at him again, busies himself with the guitar and his chair and he supposes he ought to sit back down, now.

He lets his knees buckle and collapses onto his chair. He remembers how to breathe with a hitched breath, the shape of Jason’s mouth still leaving a ghost against Tim’s. He hasn’t stopped trembling, as bad as any post-adrenaline high he’s ever experienced, heart thundering an echo of the applause even after it dies out around them, after everyone goes back to their meals and Jay tucks into his onion rings without even noticing any of them are gone.

Yeah, there’s no way this is going to work as planned.

He’s screwed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again, and sorry for the hiatus! My life has been bonkers the last few months, which is an unfortunate trend, it seems like. I’m unemployed again, which means more updates for you guys (yay) but more job searching for me (boo).
> 
> One good spot in a bunch of dreck: I got engaged myself in December! My fiancée is [AmariT](http://archiveofourown.org/users/AmariT/pseuds/AmariT) and you should go read her Jason-centric fic [Common People](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12069960/chapters/27340434) right now. Did you click the link? Click the link. Mark it for later if you don’t have time to read it now. Did you do it? Good.
> 
> [The dress Kimmy was wearing at the diner date](http://www.neimanmarcus.com/Altuzarra-Marceau-V-Neck-Sleeveless-Asymmetric-Button-Cocktail/prod206550098_cat60960790__/p.prod?icid=&searchType=EndecaDrivenCat&rte=%252Fcategory.service%253FitemId%253Dcat60960790%2526pageSize%253D30%2526No%253D30%2526Ns%253DPCS_SORT%2526refinements%253D&eItemId=prod206550098&xbcpath=cat60960790%2Ccat48730734%2Ccat17740747%2Ccat000001&cmCat=product)
> 
> [The song Jay sang for the proposal](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IR0exB2jz28)
> 
> Pronoun shifts with Tim’s mental state are difficult to wrangle, so let me know if anything is confusing or doesn’t make sense. It’s only bound to get more confusing here on out.
> 
> Notes on the bits of Spanish that aren't obvious: I switched from Avecita to Gaviota, which is still a bird-themed pet name, but has the added bonus of being a reference to a telenovela character who is a rich city girl that has to go live on a farm. It means Seagull.
> 
> The full form of 'que te parió' is 'La Madre que te parió', literally 'the mother that bore you' and is the equivalent of 'for fuck's sake' or 'you son of a bitch.' 
> 
> 'Fresa' is slang for clueless bougie teenager.


	4. Stuck With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ikea, showers, and tension, oh my.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m so sorry for the break, life’s been absolutely bonkers in a ton of ways. [I ran a Kickstarter for an anthology of LGBTQ+ comics in June](https://www.kickstarter.com/projects/586200780/being-true-lgbtq-comics-anthology), moved in July, started needing to use a cane, still don’t have a job… Lots of other nonsense but y’all don’t need the laundry list of my life’s fuckery. Now that Being True is finished and to the printer, though, I can take a second to think of other projects.

You're a slob, it's such a bore,  
Your underwear’s strewn on the floor.

And you're a packrat, most extreme,  
our house is full of magazines.

The toilet's broke, and yet I bet,  
his majesty ain't fixed it yet.

You're one to talk, sleepyhead,  
and get your fat ass out of bed.

Oh but in the eyes of god,  
We said our vows before the pews.  
"Not until death may we part"

So until then I'm stuck with you.

— [Stuck With You, Voltaire and Amanda Palmer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ShMajikZ8wM) 

 

This might be the worst situation Jason’s ever dealt with in his two lives, which is saying a goddamn lot.

He’d rather be beaten to death by the Joker again than deal with Tim-as-Kimmy for one more freaking second. The last 24 hours had passed as follows: three flights, a hiccup with picking up the car, 9-hour drive south to San Diego, and then picking up keys for the apartment. 

They lost an entire day flying to California on a regular jet from the regular airport (what’s the point of having a fucking hangar filled with private goddamn batplanes if you’re not going to use them?), with connections through Atlanta and then Denver, finally landing in San Francisco a whopping 12 hours later. The flights themselves weren’t so bad, at least as far as Kimmy was concerned; she played with her phone the entire time, at some point pulling an external battery out and using that. She bought internet access, and Jason let it go even though they’re officially living off of a bare-bones account; he didn’t really want to have an argument before they even left Gotham. Jason was stuck in the center seat for two of three flights, though, and fuck whoever calculated the legroom. No adult human should be able to fit in a seat with that little space, least of all a six-foot-tall bruiser like he is. 

After all that, they were supposed to go out to one of the parking garages to pick up a car, plates a generic number. They found a forest green ‘83 Chevy C/K in the area it was supposed to be in, its bed filled with boxes of god-knows-what, protected by a mismatched black truck cap. The plates were black with yellow numbers, because Bruce apparently had to put his aesthetic stamp on every-goddamn-thing. At least the truck itself was normal. The keys worked, the engine started after a little coughing, tank three-quarters full — and then they discovered that Bruce hadn’t fucking prepaid for parking and they had a $525 charge out of the gate. Credit card already goddamn close to maxed and they weren’t even close to home base yet.

Jason let Kimmy drive, hoping for some time to stretch out his legs, but that turned out to be a mistake. Kimmy, apparently, and probably Tim too, has road rage: they didn’t even manage to get to the interstate before she was screaming creative obscenities and flipping the bird out the window. Jason would have been impressed with the vocabulary he hadn’t known the kid had the guts to use, if he weren’t white-knuckling the dashboard and on the verge of a mental break from the screaming in his ear. He made her pull over at the first rest stop to swap drivers.

Meeting the landlord wasn’t a walk in the park, either, especially not after 24 hours of travel. They’d had a few phone conversations where Jay did his best to talk them up as model tenants and “members of the community”, a dogwhistle Jason precariously offered in case the man was involved with Grant Hill. He didn’t necessarily want the guy to know he was, if he was just a regular old landlord.

Turns out he was an uncle of someone or something and their first in-person interaction felt more like an interrogation than a friendly introduction and passing of keys. Tim, thankfully, kept his fucking mouth shut. For a first true run of his backstory as Jacob, it went pretty damn well, honestly.

So with all of that settled, here they are, in an Ikea at 10am, awake for nearly 30 straight hours.

Arguing over a bed.

So they can get some sleep before tackling the rest of the apartment setup tomorrow — later that night? Hell, Jason is willing to sleep 24 hours until tomorrow.

“I just don’t understand,” Jason says for what feels like the hundredth time, “why the hell we should be spending $300 on a bed frame. When there’s a perfectly good one for less than a hundred right there.”

“Oh my god, Jay, because we need a metal frame with easy-to-use bars for stuff! Don’t be dense!” Jason can’t tell if her face is this red because of anger or something else.  
  
“What the fuck stuff are you talking about that’s worth two hundred dollars?!” He is not going to spend three hundred on a bed frame. It’s a matter of principle.  
  
“Do you _want_  me to tell everyone in here about our sex life?!” 

“I — what?” Jason looks surreptitiously around them, but they’re alone. Ikea just after opening on a weekday turns out to be a ghost town, thank god.

“You cannot possibly be this vanilla,” Kimmy hisses at him under her breath. “Handcuffs, Jay, or rope, because we’re kinky, we have kinky sex, this is a thing.”

“Oh,” is the only thing he can muster, his pulse thundering in his ears and his face so hot he thinks his vision is being affected. “I guess we can get the,” he pauses to look at the signage again, “Leirvik. But maybe we go with a Queen instead. It saves us a hundred bucks.”

“Okay,” Kimmy says, with that Tone, the one that women use when they say they’re Fine, which means that they’re not actually fine. How the hell this kid has that tone down so perfectly, Jason has no idea, but it’s creepy as fuck.

There’s another argument about mattresses (Jason begrudgingly concedes again). Another about bedding. After a while, Jason just gives up and lets Kimmy pick everything, since she apparently has a solid argument to back up every single ridiculous purchase she wants.

He just about cries when everything is rung up.

616.60. Their first credit card has a limit of $1000, so that’s already maxed with more than a hundred left. He hands over the card numbly and tells her to ring up $450 on it, then puts the rest on their backup card.

Guess they’re not going to have a couch or literally anything else in their apartment for a while.

 

\---

 

Kimmy has been silent since they paid, remaining eerily so as they put together the bedframe using pictographic instructions that feel like they should be carved into stone and not simply printed on paper. Thank goodness for Bat training; he’s heard horror stories, but with their combined intellect, even in silence, they manage to piece it together in under half an hour.

After they wrestle the new mattress onto the thing, Jason leaves Kimmy to put on the sheets while he takes a shower, grateful he thought ahead to pack shampoo and soap in with his flight bag. 

And he realizes they forgot to buy goddamn shower hooks. 

He swears under his breath and MacGyvers the curtain to the rod with dental floss. They can fix it tomorrow. Later. Sometime.

“...What are you doing?” 

It’s a testament to his sleep deprivation that he hadn’t heard her sneak up on him. “Jesus, warn a guy next time,” he manages to grouse after whipping around to look at the interruption. Kimmy raises an eyebrow at him and nods to the half-completed project.

Despite knowing exactly what he’s working on, he follows her gaze to the suture-neat floss ties attaching the first third of the curtain. “We don’t have hooks,” he says. Even though that should be pretty damn obvious.

“Huh,” she says.

She continues to stand there, staring.

“You wanna come over here and help me or what?”

She blinks and shakes her head a little like she’s rebooting, then pads into the tiny bathroom beside him, bare toes glittering with sparkly nail polish. Jason hands her the box of floss.

“Cut me pieces of this,” he orders. “About 6 inches each.”

“Okay,” she says, and they slip into a steady, quiet rhythm.

As soon as the last tie is up, Jason yanks the curtain open. It snags a little on the area where the tension rod threads together, but otherwise works just as good as any hooks. Maybe they’ll save the money and just keep this solution for a while.

He considers what they should buy instead with the couple saved bucks as he pulls off his shirt and drops it on the floor.

A tiny squeak of a noise pulls him back to the present -- Kimmy’s still standing there, staring at him. His stomach, specifically. He covers it with his hands self consciously; so what, he has a little extra padding right now, he’s been stressed. “Can I help you?” 

“Wha? Oh, god, I’m sorry, I’ll let you -- I’ll just. Go.” She scampers off, slamming the door behind her.

Weirdo.

Whatever, he doesn’t have the energy to dwell. He turns on the shower to let the water heat up while he strips.  The rest of his clothing joins his shirt and he steps into the spray, thankful for the heat against his tired muscles.

 

\---

 

“All yours,” Jason calls to Kimmy from the doorway of the bathroom. She glances up, mouth going slack at the very wet, very naked man standing there with only a towel around his waist, steam billowing out around him. She can’t help where her eyes fall, the sliver of thick thigh that can’t quite be contained by the terry cloth.

Good merciful _god_ , she’s obvious. She grinds her eyes shut and feigns a yawn. “Thanks,” she mumbles, unplugging her phone and taking it with her to dig through her bag for toiletries. Jason flops face-first onto his side of the bed like a dead fish, groaning. It seems like he didn’t notice anything, but she seriously needs to be better at compartmentalizing if she’s going to survive this case.

Showering, at least, is good practice for that.

She sticks her phone in the sink, propped above the drain so that the porcelain will amplify the speakers, and taps open iTunes. In a few seconds, Depeche Mode is reverberating off the tiled walls. She hums along gently as she takes off her clothing and carefully does not look in the mirror; the sudden drop in vocal octave when she takes off the collar is jarring, but he clears his throat and sings a little, settling back into the skin of Tim easily.

His crotch is sweaty and his junk is sore from being cooped up for way, way longer than the recommended 6 or 7 hours. He supposes that’s just something that he’ll get used to after a few more weeks; the skin pulled taught at the dimple where his penis becomes pubic mound probably needs extra lotion, just to prevent stretch marks or, god forbid, tearing. He grazes his thumb over the skin, satisfied that the awful home Brazilian wax is still good.   

Next off is the bra. Steph made sure they all fit perfectly, but there are still angry red marks from the underwire, and his breathing is just an edge easier once it’s off. The breasts are sweaty, too, but the bra absorbed most of it. He cups them carefully and steels himself to look in the mirror.

It’s still absolutely absurd, seeing himself with boobs suddenly, like someone haphazardly photoshopped them on as a prank. But he can feel the weight of them, the gentle pull and sting of his nipples pebbling and pointing despite the residual steam from Jay’s shower. He squeezes at them slightly, just to reassure himself that they’re a part of him, and the action is so strangely erotic, his dick gives a little hopeful twitch.

God, he is way too tired for this. He doesn’t need to be popping boners over the idea of himself having tits. He isn’t even attracted to tits, not like that. Sure, there’s probably the psychosocial draw buried deep in the trenches of his mind left over from never having nursed, but that’s different. Right? 

He drops his breasts and turns sideways, examining his profile; his butt isn’t too bad, but it’s a little small to really seem feminine. He makes a mental note to add more squats and hip extensions to his daily routine.

Okay, enough of that.

The shower feels amazing. The pressure isn’t quite as good as he’s used to, but the water itself isn’t too hard, and the heat soaks into his bones quickly. He sings to the music without care, suds in his hair and trailing down his back. The acoustics in here are incredible, really.

“Hey, you’re such a pretty boy, you’re so pretty,” he croons to himself, running his red poof over his skin to the beat. His knuckles bump the head of his penis, excited to be free of its compression-undies prison. He really shouldn’t, not with Jason right outside, but it’s been forever and he’s tired and it’d be nice to unwind a little more. Besides, the music probably covers up any noises he’s going to make.

A few more brushes against the head and he’s achingly hard. Decision made.

He finishes a scrub down with military efficiency and cups his breasts with some consideration. He’s been in a little too much pain since the operation to involve them in anything, and he’s really only been rubbing out maintenance orgasms anyway lately. Something feels deliciously erotic about feeling himself up with a distinctly sexual goal in mind. He squeezes at them carefully, imagining someone watching him, and moans.

One to add to his list: he apparently loves the idea of being objectified. He thinks about someone, anyone, looking at him (her?), devouring him -- her -- with their eyes. Rolling hips to the pulse of the music, thumbing and pinching at sensitive nipples, a low whine escaping through wet lips. Despite the hot water, goosebumps pebble over vast swatches of her skin, her penis so hard it might only take one more touch to go off.

The faceless eyes watching her turn blue, sharpen, focus into Jason. Jason, sitting on some plush black sofa, legs spread wide and dominant, a little smirk egging on the show.

“Oh god,” she whimpers against cool tile, and that’s it, that’s all it takes to shoot off, completely untouched below the belt.

Tim watches the cum swirl off of his skin under the spray of water, immediately feeling wrongwrongwrong. Dirty. Sinful. Something is very, very wrong with him, and he’s trapped with these… _things_ , for god knows how long. He shouldn’t want them. He shouldn’t get off on the idea of having them.

He stays in the shower too long, long enough that he’s sure he won’t be crying when he gets out. He refuses to look at himself in the mirror, towels off quickly, puts on his pajamas without touching his skin as much as possible. His eyes are still burning when he leaves the bathroom, and he lets his hair fall into his eyes to hide it.

He needn’t have bothered. Jason is in the same spot he left him in, face down on the bed in the towel.

“...You awake?” Tim murmurs, creeping toward the prone man. No response. Tim touches Jay’s bare shoulder with the hesitance of a butterfly. The man’s wet skin has cooled as it’s dried. Tim spreads his hand out flat, seeking out his warmth. Jason stirs and arches his back into the touch with a small grunt.

Tim flutters his hand away, the butterflies travelling to beat against his chest. Jason rolls over, scrubbing at his hair, and the towel is barely holding on, and Tim is going to lose it.

“You should put on pajamas,” he blurts, blunt as a mallet.

Jason gives him the finger and rolls off the bed, snagging his towel with a hand before it falls.

Tim crawls into bed and turns to face the wall. He refuses to look at Jason and he refuses to think about it. Maybe if he pretends hard enough to be someone else, he can forget all about this horrible day and just fall asleep.

The light flicks off and the bed dips behind him a few seconds later.

The problem with pretending to be someone else is that his someone else is Kimmy. Having Jay’s warm body settle what feels like inches away from Kimmy’s back is, at least, less stressful in her mindset, but it does nothing to help with the roiling discomfort and self-hatred still clinging to her abdomen and lower after that shower. She’s so, so aware of her penis in the stupidest way. Maybe she should just suck it up and start sleeping in the compression undies, too. 

“I can hear you thinking,” Jay rumbles under his breath from a few inches next to her ear. She fights down a shiver. “Cut it out.”

“Maybe you can turn off your brain without any problem, you big brute,” she says lightly, a high Kimmy tone even without the voice changer, hoping it covers the way she wants to arch her body back against his, “but for some of us, it’s not that easy.”

“Mm.” Jay rolls over, away from her. “If you decide to dick around on your phone because you can’t sleep, turn off the sound.”

“I… can do that.”

Five minutes later, Jason is snoring softly on his belly, and Kimmy-or-Tim is staring at the ceiling, wondering how they’ll ever get to sleep.

 

\---

 

Jason wakes up some time later, probably late afternoon by the way he feels sticky and dehydrated. The shift of the sun beats directly through the undressed window directly across from the bed. At some point during the day, Jay lost his shirt. His bare chest sticks uncomfortably to Tim’s tee where they’re tangled up together.

Oh boy.

He does his best to extract himself, but there’s no way not to jostle the tiny body in his arms (seriously, how the hell is this kid so _small?_ ). Tim stirs, and in his half-asleep understanding of the world, grabs onto Jay’s arms for dear life, sharp painted nails digging into his forearm.

“Ow, fuck,” Jason hisses into Tim’s ear, too trapped to pull away and make it less awkwardly intimate. He lets his arms go limp for a moment, hoping Tim will fall back asleep.

Of course, he’s not that lucky. He’s never lucky, so of-fucking-course Tim would roll over in his fugue state and press up into his chest, legs slotting in between Jason’s like he’s used to sleeping with another person like this. “Tim,” Jason says a little louder, into the mess of hair tickling his nose. It’s sticking up in odd angles from sleeping on it wet. Tim’s cheek rubs on his pec like a cat before he freezes.

The tension is immediate. There’s barely a second of processing before Tim scrambles away from him in a panic, overshooting and flinging himself off the bed and into the wall. He slides into the gap to the floor like a distressed kitten. Jay can’t help but snort. 

“Morning, princess,” he sniggers.

“It’s not morning,” comes the scratchy, petulant reply. “It’s.” He pauses, pale arm snaking back onto the bed to grab his phone, nestled next to his pillow. It disappears into the crack, illuminating briefly. “5:36.”

Jason stretches, grunting at the cracks and pops in his back and neck as his joints settle. “You hungry?”

“No.” Tim’s voice is gruff.

“No?” Jason says, biting back a laugh. He’d heard Tim was a shithead when he first woke up, but this is less Mr. Hyde and more Grumpy Cat. The disheveled glare peeking up at him over the edge of the bed only makes the comparison stronger. Hard to believe this little weirdo can fell a man in minutes with his bare hands in over twenty ways. “Cause there’s this tortas place nearby I want to try out, considering we’re in authentic Mexican food country now.”

Tim’s look turns suspicious, and he’s silent for a good ten seconds before he says, “Sandwich.”

Jason does laugh now, a grating bark that scrapes out of his throat. “Yes, Timmy. Torta means sandwich.”

“Screw you,” Tim says, giving him an emphatic middle finger as he sinks back into the bed crack.

Jason rolls off the bed and grabs his tshirt off the floor. “Not before dinner, you’ll pass out on an empty stomach,” he says smoothly, turning just in time to catch Tim’s horrified, bright red face as the little gremlin crawls out of his hidey-hole.

After being humiliated in public a few times that morning, Jason takes vicious satisfaction in turning it around on Tim. The boy stumbles past him, still bright red, and mumbles something about makeup.

Jason finds socks and puts on his shoes and the kid is still holed up in the bathroom, so he takes it upon himself to start lugging the boxes in from the truck bed that hadn’t gotten moved earlier, before they went to Ikea.

It turns out, inside the boxes, are things like pots and pans, dishware, curtains: the little domestic trappings that they’d probably put off getting until absolutely necessary, just to save the cash.

God bless Alfred.

 

\---

 

It’s incredibly stupid how stressed she is about her appearance, but she can’t help second-guessing everything she’s dug out of her suitcase. She’s off-balance after that sex joke, and she wants to keep HIM off-balance, to gain some semblance of control over this situation. She’s lost that first impact, though, the way he was overwhelmed by her persona that first time they met; he’s used to her now. She has to work for his affection. Dammit, what to wear?

She finally settles on a black mini overalls-skirt over a tight Pink Floyd tee, skull print tights, and the pair of used floral Doc Martins found at a Goodwill a few years back that she’d never had occasion to wear until now. She can manage the perfect eyeliner wing with very little concentration now, but still second-guesses how it looks. She debates lipstick, but they’re going to be eating; she puts on gloss and throws the lipstick in her purse.

She finds her way out to the living room and stops short at the scene in front of her. “...What are you doing?”

Jason pushes his hair, curled and damp with sweat, out of his face. The motion is so casually sexy, Kimmy might actually self destruct. “Alfred packed us plates and stuff,” he says, digging back into the box at his feet.

“I thought we were going to dinner,” she says, cocking a hip just-so. If he looks up at her, she wants to look just as casual-sexy as he did. To keep their chemistry even. Obviously.

“Don’t get your titties in a twist, I was just staying busy while you took forever getting ready.”

He does glance at her then, but doesn’t even pause, just raises his eyebrows at her in a way that’s distinctly mocking. She huffs and stomps to the door, Docs clunking on the fake-wood flooring.

It’s _not fair_ that he’s already used to her and can just _dismiss_ her like that.

She’s halfway down the outdoor deck and starting down the stairs when Jason catches up to her, keys still jangling in hand. She doesn’t pause for him or even look back, but he slots in just behind her with ease anyway. When they reach the bottom of the stairs, his hand snags hers, squeezing a little hard like he’s trying to punish her.

What _ever._ She yanks her hand back and crosses her arms. Jay huffs in annoyance but he can just learn to deal with it.

“I was just razzing you,” Jay grumbles, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. “You look good.”

There he goes, easily destabilizing her again. She trips over her own stupid feet a little bit and she’s sure the look on her face is absolutely idiotic. Jay catches her with a hand on her bicep. He leaves it there, the warmth curling deep. He trails it down her arm to capture her hand again, and this time she doesn’t pull away.

Their area is nicer than Kimmy had expected. Lush lawns welcome people into ranch-style homes line the block after their complex building, though the barred screen doors on every house is a little disconcerting. The fences are almost all chain-link or wrought iron; they pass a yard with a pit bull dozing on its back in the fading afternoon sun.

“We should get a dog,” Jay says half a block later.

“We absolutely should not,” Kimmy replies with alarm. She doesn’t do animals. She wasn’t raised around them and she doesn’t trust their lower-functioning brains. This may also have to do with the fact she was attacked by a raccoon once when she was out running after Batman at 12 years old, but she’s allowed to be traumatized by that. It was traumatizing.

“Why, you afraid of dogs?” Jay slows to a stop, teasing grin making her heart do somersaults despite her annoyance.

“None of your business what I’m afraid of--”

Something cold, hard, and cylindrical stabs into her back suddenly, a hand slipping around to grab her neck in a chokehold. Every nerve in her body is screaming at her to act, but she holds very still instead.

“You should be afraid of stepping into my hood like this, _chingado_.” He’s not even talking to her, he’s talking over her at Jay. The adrenaline she’s so desperately keeping leashed is making her tremble like a newborn fawn.

Jay raises his hands in a clear show of peace, but his eyes are flashing and his voice is rough as he replies, “Get your hands off my girl, _cabr_ _ó_ _n_.”

“Get your gringa bitch off my turf then.” The gun jabs hard into her back again. She _really_ wants to disarm him, but she has to play the terrified civilian.

“Talk to Carlos, we’re renting one of his places. I’m Oso’s cousin Jay, trying to shake the pigs in the Bay. He said I’d always be welcome here. Figured it held even though he’s dead.” Jay’s hands are still raised by his ears, but his trigger fingers are twitching. Kimmy tries not to think about the arsenal of guns hiding under their mattress and in the closet.

“Oso never talked about no cousins,” the gangster hisses over Kimmy’s shoulder, breath hot against her ear. She tries her best not to squirm.

“Fuckin’ Oso didn’t talk much, period,” Jay snaps. “Look, talk to Carlos, my mom was Oso’s tía, my pinche cop dad beat her to death so I slit his fucking throat. Now I’m here. I just want to get some food with my girl.” 

The man shoves Kimmy toward Jay suddenly, who catches her tight and immediately turns his body to be a shield.

“If Carlos doesn’t have good shit to say, I’m coming for you, _Jay,_ ” the man sneers.

“Come for me when you got a beat in invitation, esé.”

“That’s Rooster to you. Adios, pendejo.”

Jason doesn’t let her go until they both watch Rooster swagger back where they came from, turning into the yard with the dog. He whistles once, sharp and high, and the animal springs to its feet to follow him inside. The tight grip around Kimmy’s shoulders only relaxes when they hear a series of deadbolts engaging. 

“Well,” she says, voice considerably stronger than she feels, “that was fun.”

Jason’s only reply is a harsh growl, directly into her ear.

He doesn’t let go of her for the rest of the walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woooo, realizing what a minefield writing about the gang is going to be. Brushing up on my Spanglish and hoping I’m not going to explode my leg in stepping wrong with the culture and nuance of the gang -- please let me know if anything seems off, I’d rather get it right than be unintentionally offensive.
> 
> So, there [really are Batman aesthetic plates in California](https://www.dmv.ca.gov/portal/dmv/detail/legacyplates/index) that you could get if you wanted, and Bruce is the exact sort of Extra that would get it for their undercover junk truck.
> 
> I also plagiarized my own life with the shower curtain situation; when I first moved into my last place, it was after a 13 hour car trip with all my worldly crap, unloading the car, and a day of moving boxes and furniture from [Michelle](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmariT/pseuds/AmariT)’s old place. After all that, all I wanted was a shower and we didn’t have hooks, [so I made it work.](https://i.imgur.com/U4pgfDI.jpg)
> 
> [Tim canonically listens to Depeche Mode](https://78.media.tumblr.com/28fc0809c8dbe4cbf994665408f184eb/tumblr_npkbliRHgK1qjrd7ko1_500.png) and I’m taking this as a clue to his not being straight, because WOW Depeche Mode is a gay band. [Here’s the first song he was singing in the shower.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=slZDjsER-YE)
> 
> Also he’s pretty canonically a fashionista so you will get the description of every Kimmy outfit, basically, at least while we’re in Tim’s point of view. One of these days I’ll draw all of her outfits.


End file.
